The Christmas Eve air inside the Victorian was thick with cedar, wax, and the unmistakable scent of arousal already blooming. Gabriel barely made it through the door before Rose was on him. Her white velvet gown was already slipping off one shoulder as she pushed him back against the hallway wall, her freshly cropped pixie hair brushing his jaw. She rose on tiptoes and claimed his mouth in a kiss that tasted like red wine, possession, and twenty years of pent-up want.
“I’ve been wet for a long time, my sexy Santa,” she whispered against his lips, her voice wrecked. “Every time you smiled that sweet Santa smile, I imagined dragging you behind the tree and taking you with the whole ballroom watching.” Gabriel groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her through the velvet, finding nothing but smooth, warm skin beneath.
No panties. Just the slick heat of her already coating her inner thighs.
“Jesus, Rose…”
She bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to sting, then licked the smarting away. “No Jesus tonight. Just me. And you. And every filthy thing we’ve been too polite to say for years.” She pulled back just enough to shrug the gown down her arms. It pooled at her feet like spilled cream, leaving her in nothing but the scandalous crimson lace set she’d kept hidden for months. The demi-bra pushed her breasts up into perfect, inviting mounds, her nipples already tight and dark against the sheer fabric. The garter belt framed her hips like a gift wrap he was dying to tear open. Between her legs, the tiny thong was soaked through, clinging to her swollen folds.
Gabriel’s cock jerked hard against the heavy Santa trousers. Rose noticed—of course she did. She dropped to her knees right there in the hallway, the carpet grazing her skin, eyes locked on his as she yanked the velvet waistband down just enough to free him. He was already leaking, thick and flushed, his veins standing out. She dragged her tongue along the underside in one long, slow stripe, then swirled around the head, tasting salt and need.
“Fuck—” Gabriel’s head thumped back against the wall.
“You taste like you’ve been waiting for this as long as I have,” she murmured, her voice vibrating against his skin. Then she took him deep. No teasing, no gentle build—she swallowed him to the root on the first go, her throat opening like she’d been practicing this moment in her mind for years. Her hands gripped his hips, nails digging in as she bobbed, wet and messy, saliva slicking down his shaft and dripping onto her chest. Gabriel fisted her short hair—God, the new cut was perfect for this—and met her mouth in shallow, desperate thrusts.
The sounds were primal: wet gags, his low curses, and the crackle of the nearby fire. When his thighs started shaking, she pulled off with a gasp, her lips swollen and glossy. “Bedroom. Now,” she ordered, standing and tugging him after her like a man on a leash.
The parlor was warmer and softer, lit by candles with a twelve-foot tree glittering in gold and silver. Rose shoved him down onto the wide sofa, climbed on top, and ground her soaked center against him once, twice, coating him. “You feel how drenched I am?” she breathed, rocking harder. “All day I kept thinking about you stretching me open. About you coming so deep it leaks out for hours.” She reached down, shoved the thong aside, and notched him at her entrance.
Then she sank down. Slow. Deliberate. Every inch. They both moaned—a broken, simultaneous sound of intense aching. She was molten and tight, fluttering around him as if her body were trying to pull him deeper. When her seat met his thighs, she rolled her hips in a slow circle, grinding against his pelvis. “Look at me while I do this, Gabriel.”
He did. Her eyes were dark with lust, her pupils blown and her red lipstick smeared. She rode him with a frantic energy—hard snaps and rolling grinds, her breasts bouncing free of the bra. He latched onto one, his teeth grazing and his tongue flicking. She cried out, her nails raking down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.
“Harder,” she gasped. “Mark me. I want to see the traces of you tomorrow.”
He obeyed, his teeth grazing her neck, her shoulder, and the swell of her breast—sucking hard enough to leave marks he knew she’d trace fondly in the mirror. When she started trembling, he flipped her in one brutal move. Face down on the sofa now, her back arched, the thong still tangled around one thigh. He spread her wide with his thumbs, watching himself disappear into her again—slow this time, letting her feel every thick inch.
Then he moved with purpose. Deep, heavy strokes. The wet slap of skin filled the room, louder than the jazz playing low in the background. One hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, just possessive—while the other found her clit and rubbed in fast, merciless circles. “Come for me,” he growled against her ear. “Come so hard you soak us both. Then I’m going to fill you until you’re wearing me for days.”
She shattered. Screaming his name, her back arching as her walls clamped so tight he nearly lost his footing. He didn’t stop, pounding through her spasms and chasing his own edge until she whimpered, “Inside—please—give it to me—” He buried himself to the root and came with a guttural sound, his hips jerking as his vision tunneled. When he finally pulled out, a thick trickle followed, sliding down her thigh. Rose collapsed forward, then rolled onto her back, her legs still spread and her chest heaving.
She dragged two fingers through the mess between her legs, brought them to her lips, and watched him while she tasted herself. “Merry Christmas, Santa.”
Gabriel laughed—hoarse, wrecked, and euphoric—and dropped down beside her, pulling her sweat-slick body against his. Outside, snow fell in thick, silent sheets.
Nine months and three weeks later, the ultrasound screen showed a tiny, perfect heartbeat. Twenty years of silence, one night of desperate worship, and now spring was finally blooming inside her.
